Scarborough Fair
by nothing-chan
Summary: Was he a child? He was over two hundred years old, but he barely reached England's knee, not close enough to brush his heart, or his lips, or the soft rhythm of his eyelashes against his downturned eyes. He was not his love, or his fascination, or a flower worth the time of day. He was a fruit fly on the edge of his Milky Way skin, flicked off with the short swing of a finger.


_Tell her to find me an acre of land _

_( Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme )_

_Between salt water and the sea strands _

_Then she'll be a true love of mine._

* * *

America's heart splintered against his ribcage, beating, beating, repetitive, repetitive, repetitive, repetitive, monotonous, two globes of red blooming on his cheeks as England twisted his spigot of water off, scratching his forehead so his eyebrows flew in contrasting directions.

He bent to a flower, dusted with trickles of water, tilting his head as he thought about the smell, decoding its worth.

"Would you mind putting these in the vase when you head inside? I have to water some of the vegetables off," England uprooted the patch of lavender, gracefully severing its ties to life and the moist soil below. He made killing beautiful.

"Yeah, no problem," America took the ragtag bouquet, twisting it in his awkward, too large hands, eyelashes sweeping past the lenses of his glasses.

"And don't touch anything," England turned, breathtaking in overheated bloom, derby worthy straw hat drooping into his mile-wide eyes, "If you break one of my figurines again so help me-"

"Alright, alright! No touching, keep your hands to yourself, I get it dude," America waved his hands about in the air, innocently shaking the delicate stems in his hands back and forth. The gardening country rolled his eyes, wheeling back to his collection of herbs and organic produce, pulling the cumbrous hat down on his head, shielding him and his cream skin from the treacherous sun that clamored above.

He was forgotten, so America left, walking through the quaint glass doors and into the open-air kitchen, empty tea cups dangling and clinking in the breeze. There were about ten desolate vases in England's country home, void of any flowers, so Alfred picked the closest one to him, arranging the fragrant blossoms, a concentrated twist in his lips. He needed to make them look lovely, worthy enough for the perfectly furnished surrounding, but to appear as if he had not tried at all, like he did not care, even though he did care, he cared an awful lot.

Once the small strand of hair falling into his blue gaze annoyed him to the point of abandoning the task with a frustrated sigh, a weaved basket was swung like a pendulum through the threshold, soft melodies following it. Alfred froze, small bead of sweat against the nape of his neck causing his body to twitch and shudder, afraid if he made a move he would disturb the soft whisper of a hum that trailed into the room.

England noticed him, did not seem to mind, and maintained his murmur of the melancholic tune, vegetables swaying at his side.

"Hm, that's not where I thought they should go, but it looks nice, thank you."

Alfred ripped a lilac bud into his fingers, circling it around his fingernails packed with dirt and millions of comatose bacteria, multiplying and reproducing and eating away at his tan flesh.

England turned on the gas stove, flames bouncing up to meet his musical lips, now softly singing under his breath, creating a noise so piercing it filled the room with an excruciating buzz that were pests against the fly paper of America's eardrums.

"Remember this song? I used to sing it to you when you had nightmares, it would put you to sleep right away," the lithe man placed a tea kettle on the stove, porcelain embellished with pallid flowers, fading and cracking away, a winding chip across the top that had obviously been repaired bolstering the fact that it was important, a keepsake, something America's clumsy, childish hands were not permitted to touch, "It's amazing how such simple things can fascinate a child."

America was continually fascinated with the same thing, ever since he could remember the young face poised in front of his, smiling, grin crooked, eyes capturing him in foliage and deep, deep love.

He was fascinated with the way England's waist sat boyish under his poorly tied apron.

He was fascinated by the way his lips curved like the pursing over a cold, cold popsicle on a warm, warm day.

His hands sat on the slight curve of his hips as England sank his pointed blade into the helpless, wet skin of a tomato, knife clattering to the cutting board when the fairy hold tickled over his loose, patched shirt.

"Wh-What are you-" He rounded quickly, too close, never close enough, flush against America's chest, throbbing in fear and utter trepidation.

America mapped every inch of the face in front of him before he was inevitably pushed away, filing away the way his eyes slid in a hurricane of emotion.

He stumbled back, catching his hand on the countertop, nearly missing the heat of the stove and the bubbling water.

"What is wrong with you?" England looked as if he had just been trampled and tossed into a lake of one billion grasping hands, tugging at his shirt and lips curled in upset.

"I'm just in love with you," America dropped his arms, just like the tranquil and passive atmosphere that had once filtered through the summer air, poisoning the now rotting harvest on the table, swimming with maggots, mold spores leaking into their mouths.

"I-I…see…"

The whole nation of America faltered.

"I love you more than anyone America, but as a brother, a child."

"I can't love you how you want me to."

"I'm sorry."

The tea kettle began to shriek into the deafening silence that pressed against America's temples, louder than England's whispers, louder than the synthesis of DNA, louder than a supernova in the sky.

"I think you should leave."

America felt like vomiting up every inch of his body out of him, liver and heart and disc shaped cells writhing on the floor as England refused to meet his eye, the floor his Romeo, gaze locked to unpolished wood.

Was he a child?

He was over two hundred years old, but he barely reached England's knee, not close enough to brush his heart, or his lips, or the soft rhythm of his eyelashes against his downturned eyes.

The boiling water screeched into the singed air.

* * *

_She once was a true love of mine._

* * *

_hhhhhHEY Sorry I know I have to update a lot of different fics and I shouldn't be posting random one-shots but my beta/best friend Megan wanted me to write something real fast so I pulled out the sonic stops and DID IT._

_The song is Scarborough Fair, I personally like the Simon & Garfunkel version. It's been my favorite song since I was a child, it was what my parents would sing to make me fall asleep. Basically, it is an old Medieval ballad about a man singing for a woman he used to love to fulfill impossible tasks for him, such as sew a shirt without a seam, and then he will love her again, obviously implying he will not love her ever again._

_I read a doujin based on this song with unrequited USUK and it pains me so much to write something that isn't requited for my babies. I mean at least if I write them dying or killing each other or something they still love one another but GAAAAAAH the USUK fangirl inside of me is screaming adn writhing and curdling rn._

_So please review, favorite, and enjoy a good nights rest._


End file.
